


Adrift on Uncharted Seas

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [53]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elrond's dodgy books (mention), Fourth Age, Glorfindel (still) has issues, Leaving Arda, M/M, Reunions, Sailing To Valinor, Waiting, over-protective!Erestor, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor and Glorfindel may have discovered a new happiness together in this Fourth Age, but - they said they would sail West with Elrond's sons. </p><p>So they wait.</p><p>And overthink things......</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift on Uncharted Seas

Evenings like this, I am glad our lord insisted on this Hall being built so large.

Annoying as Lindir could sometimes be, it is surprising how one misses him, when his sweet if perpetually melancholy singing is replaced by – well, frankly, drunken bellowing.

That is not singing, and I think if mortals heard them, the reputation of elves would suffer.

Some kind of drinking game, I suppose.

Bonding, he calls it.

“We no longer comb as a group, Erestor-nin, we need some way to form a group, we need to build alliances with these Galadhrim. It is important for warriors, you know this.”

I do not bother to argue.

What would be the point?

He means – I have friends I can drink too much with, sing the sort of songs that soldiers sing, and win the sort of stupid bets that soldiers make. That is how he is, how he has always been. I have no intention of trying to change him – I never have. 

I just miss having the authority to ensure such idiocy stayed in the guard-room. 

Still.

They are not yet dancing on the tables.

He is not yet dancing on the tables.

Give it time, I think.

Time and wine. There is, I suspect, only one way this evening will end.

However, for now, this Hall being, as I said, so large, I shall stay over here, quiet by this fire, with those elves who are also in possession of some sense, and we shall share a bottle of the strong Dorwinion, pleasantly.

Actually tasting it.

Making conversation with the newly arrived Lord Celeborn.

And in the morning – I daresay many of those at the other end of the Hall will have headaches, will wince at daylight, and will be cramped and stiff from sleeping where they fall.

I sigh to myself, and think it is indeed a long time since our lord sailed west.

 

 

 

Conversation at this end of the Hall turns on the usual – gossip, mainly. Who is betrothed, who vowed, who combing, who with child, who – who plans to sail soon.

More and more of us are leaving.

“What of you?” one asks, “will you and the Lord Glorfindel sail soon?”

I shrug.

“We gave our word to stay until our lord’s sons sailed, and then accompany them,” I say, “so I suppose that is what we will do. It is not something we have spoken of recently.”

No. We have had – other things on our minds.

“Do you not feel the call?” another asks – he has been saying he is pulled more than ever now, stays only because he cannot persuade his brother to go also – I think he is desperate for the House to be closed, then they would both have to go. I daresay as Lorien retreats, he is hoping we also will soon – if he but thought, he would see that Celeborn’s presence shows the opposite. He waits here for his grandsons – and none know whether they will choose to stay until the death of their sister, or not.

Or longer, I suppose.

After all, they will then still have family to watch over.

“No,” I say, truthfully, for I do not, I am in no hurry, and I smile to myself, “no, I think there is little to draw me from here.”

This causes a round of raised eyebrows.

“So we had gathered,” Melpomaen is clearly trying not to laugh, “the two of you seem – more than content.”

I incline my head, acknowledging his words, but they have carried through the Hall – the singing, as I daresay it should be termed, has finally ended.

“Content?!” I know that voice, oh meleth, I think, what are you going to come out with now, for one who is so – unsure – at times, you are singularly lacking in discretion, “con-bloody-tent?! I would hope you are more than content, Erestor-nin.”

And there are arms around me, and he is – oh sweet Elbereth, he is going to regret this tomorrow – he is kissing my ear as he leans over me.

“I am indeed,” I say, and I try to stand – not easy when you have one as large and heavy as my warrior draping himself over you. “I am content, more than content, and you – you are drunk.”

“No,” he says, weaving just a little, “no, I am not drunk, meolleya. They are all drunk. Look, I am the last one standing. I won.”

“So you did,” I say, patting him gently, ignoring the endearment – for now, “so you did. Very good love, well done. Now, I think it is time for you to – to leave this Hall, and rest.”

He blinks at me, I believe the word is ‘owlishly’, and says,

“Rest? That’s not – not what I had in mind.”

He isn’t stumbling over his words, he isn’t slurring them, he isn’t swaying. Of course not. He is Glorfindel, he can and will hold a quite remarkable amount of drink.

However.

There are moments, though he does not believe me, when discretion really is the better part of valour, and so I make our goodnights, and lead him away.

Or I try.

He has other ideas.

“Coffee,” he says, still holding onto me, still half leaning on the chairback, “Coffee. Erestor meolleya, I do need coffee.”

I am tempted to ask why he thinks he needs coffee when it is late in the evening, he is not out on patrol, he can stay in reverie as late as he likes in the morning – but one look at his face, and I think I shall not.

He clearly will give, in full and graphic detail, the reason he wishes to be fully awake before we make our way to our room.

Our room.

Still, still I love those words.

Long have I loved him, long has he loved me, but this – this excessive happiness, this joy in each other is only recent – well, recent in the count of elves – and so until now we kept up the habit of separate rooms.

I raise one eyebrow at him, and he laughs again, and – and I cannot be angry with him, he is my love and he is happy. Happy because I love him, and he me. 

I sigh.

“Coffee then,” I say, and I call over one of the servers who are trying to clear up the mess that has been made at the other end of the Hall. “The Lord Glorfindel requires coffee,” I begin, but he interrupts me,

“I do indeed, Faindir,” he says, and I think how typical of him to know this lad’s name, and coax a smile, “I think you can see well that I require coffee. I also require cakes – those honey cakes – I know there are some, I saw them come out of the oven earlier – do not let them all be wasted on those Galadhrim, bring the best up now.” He grins, and adds, “And I for one will not be telling those arrogant sots anything about what could have happened to the coins they have dropped in their silly games.”

The lad smiles back, and I can only admire the effrontery of him – to bribe the servers to do as he wishes, to the detriment of our guests – with our guests’ own money.

I do sometimes wonder what happened to all his talk of honour – I think he simply suits himself how he applies the rules. He prefers the servers to the Galadhrim, so it is more honourable to help them.

Lord Celeborn’s face is a picture. I suspect I will have to do much smoothing of ruffled feathers tomorrow – but he says nothing now.

He is probably too busy watching the show. Entertained by my so-foolish love.

Anyway.

My Glorfindel’s coffee and cakes come quickly, and many of us find a renewed appetite. I refuse at first, but after he pulls me to him, and breaks off some of his to persuade me, saying,

“Eat it, it is good for you meolleya, keep your strength up,” I decide it would be less mortifying to appear to agree than to have another such exhibition. The coffee does seem to sober him, and soon he is on form, telling tales, coaxing everyone to play his word-games, laugh at his jokes, and even our guest is relaxed at last.

Relaxed and with far more to say for himself than I had ever suspected possible.

But Glorfindel – as ever, when he tries – remains the star turn, the centre of attention, the one who everyone wants a piece of. I remind myself that he is my combmate, that I will have him to myself later, that I will have him at my side every day and night of all the years to come. 

It does not help. His arm stays round me, his hand plays with my hair – in front of all these elves – a thing that were he really sober he would never do, scandalous as it is – he even strokes my ear from time to time, and I – I know I am blushing at his drunken lack of inhibitions.

I remember when we began this – how he was so afraid, so unsure – so long had he been alone with his need – he had convinced himself that the Valar would forsake us, that all elves would turn away from us, that – oh I do not know. He clearly is not concerned now.

But I know that is only because he is drunk.

I know he will regret this in the morning, and so – so I try to restrain his wilder excesses.

I might as well try to restrain him.

How can I change him, make him different than he is? He is Glorfindel. 

And I love him.

Excessive, loud and exuberant as he is. 

Even when he calls me that in public.

However, it seems a long evening, and I could strangle Melpomaen who clearly finds the whole thing very entertaining.

I think I prefer the table-dancing.

By the time we leave the Hall, I am cross, and tired.

As ever, he knows how to change my mood.

 

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

Oh fuck.

Head.

Hurts.

How much – what – drinking?

Last night?

Oh shit.

Bloody Lorien moonshine.

Games.

I won.

Fuck. Does that mean the rest of them feel worse?

Can elves die of this?

No.

More reverie.

Please.

But as I try to turn, to curl up away from the light – so bright – why is the light so bright? Who turned the sun up like that?

Why does my bed face the bloody morning sun?

Oh.

Yes.

Because this isn’t my old room.

Room I laid claim to all those years.

Nor is it his room.

It is – our room.

Very lovely.

Very nice.

Very bright.

Going to have to have words about that. All very well for him, he is far too sensible to drink so much.

Oh Elbereth, I think I might be sick.

Erestor will be livid.

And I turn, and I see him. Lying there curled up against me, eyes half shut, not quite in dreams, not quite here.

Oh sweet Valar, what did I do to deserve him?

But – even as I am stirring next to him – the memory – some of the memory of last night comes back.

Oh sweet Valar, what did I do?

I groan, remembering – too much drink, too much confidence, story of my life. 

Perhaps I am mistaken.

Maybe – some of it was not true.

Surely – surely I did not – call my Erestor – that – in front of others?

Please.

He leans into me, and I cling to him, waiting for the moment when he remembers, when he is cross – I cannot believe he won’t be cross.

“Awake now?” he asks, and I manage a ‘yes’, still waiting for the storm.

My Erestor is not one to forgive foolishness.

“What was in that – whatever it was – that you were drinking?” he asks, and I shudder, before confessing that I have no idea.

“And – and I am sorry, meleth, melethron-nin, I am so sorry, I – was I very, very obnoxious?” 

I should be on my knees, I should have my head in my hands, I should – I should at the least be touching his ears, penitent, but I cannot, I cannot move, I feel so vile.

And he is still curled against me.

He laughs – oh sweet Eru – he laughs,

“You are never obnoxious. You were funny. You insisted on coffee, you charmed honeycakes out of the cooks, you gave the money the Galadhrim had dropped –“

“They were drunk, it’s fair game,” I protest,

“you gave our honoured guests’ money to the servers to persuade them to bring you food and drink you did not need, you talked for hours, you had us all playing very, very silly games, if there is one elf in this House who has no idea what we are up to, it is not for your want of trying to make it clear, you ran your hands through my hair in front of everyone, you touched my ears, you used – endearments,” and I bow my head in shame, “you had me cuddled up next to you – you – you practically carried me out of the hall in the end, and – and when we got here – “ he pauses, and I cringe, I cannot bear to hear more, and I am so sorry, I am sorry, oh my love, will you ever forgive me?

“when we got here,” he continues, “you made love to me so thoroughly, so many times, and to such excess,” oh, I think, perhaps I have a chance of forgiveness, “that I can barely move. I am exhausted, I ache, and I have the silliest smile on my face. If you did not look so ill, I would be suggesting you drink like that more often.”

I laugh, cautiously, and then begin to try and search through the memories.

That – that cannot be a memory. 

Surely.

Barely moving my head, I try to look around the room, look for signs we did – or did not – do – that.

“Oh,” I say, “oh. Did I – did we – really - ?”

We cannot have.

My Erestor would never let me do that.

Would never agree to – that.

Surely.

He grins,

“Yes, meleth. Whatever you are about to ask, I am pretty sure the answer will be yes. We did. A lot.”

“Oh. Goodness.” I sound half-witted. 

Perhaps I am. Still I underestimate him.

You would think I would have learned by now.

Valar, I am lucky to have him.

Really, though – I must have been quite astonishingly drunk to manage to suggest it. And he agreed.

Liked it, unless I am much mistaken.

Well.

My scholar is full of surprises.

I grin.

Inanely.

I still feel ill, but – I admit – less so.

I wonder if he will – again.

“Mmm.” He stretches against me, beautiful, and smiles again, “kiss me, I love you,” he says, as he said that first wonderful morning, and his hands in my hair pull me down to him – and I do not feel ill anymore.

 

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

The sun is low in the sky before we rise.

I do not care. Not anymore. I have spent many, many hours working.

I am allowed some time to – not work.

Some time to – please my beloved.

As I walk to my study, I smile to myself. Poor ‘Fin. He thinks himself so subtle, he thinks I am shocked by him, he thinks I do not know what he desires until he manages to ask.

I know.

He is not a hard book to read. Not these days.

You would think by now he would have learnt that I adore him, I would do anything he asked. 

Besides, it is not as though he was asking anything very – unusual. No ropes involved or any such complications. I do not know why we have not done that before – I suppose there are only so many hours in a day. And unlike the characters in lord Elrond’s more – private – mortal – books, we do have other duties to attend. 

I think my beloved has still not found the courage to read those books. He seems to think it would be an act of – of infidelity.

Not if we read them together. Perhaps I should suggest that, another day.

I smile again, and I stretch as I lean against my door, shutting it, looking at the pile of papers that has appeared for me.

For once, for once I feel lazy, indolent with too much loving, and I am tempted to leave these until tomorrow. It is not as though there is anything important to do today. Celeborn and his Galadhrim are not unexpected visitors – all is prepared, their quarters, who is to see to them, and so forth. 

Besides, I am no fool, I am Erestor – and I know precisely what to expect when the lord finally realises I am in my study.

I am right.

And I am glad I did not hurry, glad I face this with hours of loving just gone, with the taste of my warrior in my mouth, the smell of him on my skin, and – and a glow about me.

I have, however, taken the precaution of finding my beloved a nice list of things to do elsewhere. Mostly involving putting the newly arrived Galadhrim warriors through their paces.

He will enjoy that.

I doubt they will.

I can already hear his voice as he roars orders at them, as he tells them precisely what he thinks of them. I sigh to myself at his – still – innocence. It never occurs to him to question that he is so often needed elsewhere when I have a difficult conversation to negotiate.

I am Erestor. I do these things best alone – and then my warrior comes in, bluff and happy, and at his genial best – and everyone blames me, but remembers him kindly – and so the myth of Imladris’ enchantment and hospitality is kept going a little longer.

I do not have long to busy myself before Celeborn comes in.

I note that he does not knock, and I think I will have to work on that. I look up at him from the papers I am reading, and I raise an eyebrow,

“Lord,” I say, quietly, “how may I help you?”

He sits, and looks at me a moment, then, 

“Erestor,” he begins, “I will be open with you. I have no wish to rule here – I am come seeking refuge – refuge from the memories of happiness that I cannot escape in Lorien. Refuge from the fading that Lorien suffers now that – that my Lady is gone, and all that she used is gone with her,” I wait, knowing he speaks of the ring of power she carried, wondering where this is leading, “I expected to find similar here. Your Lord is gone, his power with him. I expected to find a fading land. However, it is a land with fewer memories and – and no snake-tongued sons of Thranduil – and I expected to be more content.”

I nod, interested. 

“I had not heard that of those Sindar. The elder two? Interesting. That may explain a lot,” I say, remembering a diffident, hesitant prince. But Celeborn clearly has no interest in their problems; he shrugs,

“You know what I find,” he says, “I find a realm – blooming. Beautiful. Golden. I find – it is your realm. You and the Lord Glorfindel.”

I shrug,

“We have been here a long time,” I say neutrally.

He glares at me,

“But this – this – unelflike behaviour – is not longstanding, I think,” he says, and I wait, because this is the crux of it. What is he going to do or threaten? “My grandsons tried to tell me, but – I suppose I should be grateful – they did not have the words,” he looks at me, and I see – not anger, but – distress, “Erestor – they are so young – how could you let them see this?”

I lean back in my seat and clasp my hands behind my head.

I raise one eyebrow, as my Lord always used to do, to see if he has more to say.

I wait.

He stutters a bit more – I do not think years of living alone with only wine for company have improved his wit – and comes to a halt.

“See what, precisely?” I ask, wondering if he will be able to form an answer.

He gapes at me.

“You – and – and the lord Glorfindel,” he almost spits the name, and I smile, very, very slightly, knowing it is long since they were truly at ease in each other’s company, “the two of you – behaving like – like – “ he stops again.

“No, do continue,” I say, calmly, “like what precisely?”

I wait and when he does not answer, I say,

“Like two who have worked very hard for many years, who have put others before their own needs, who have served our Lord in every way he asked, both on the battlefield and here at home, who have cared for his children, who care even now for his Valley – and who have finally, finally, admitted they find joy together?” I ask, ingenuously implying it has been there all along, that our – loving – has not only recently added the ways of mortals to those of elves, and then, seeing his face, seeing his sneer, I become really angry, angry at the thought that he might say something of this to my love, might hurt my warrior, drive him back into that bleak despair from which I had to work so hard to rescue him, “or perhaps, my lord, you mean – how can we let your grandsons come to this Valley – which they love, but have never learnt to tend – and see it as it should be, golden and blooming? How can we let them come to this House, and feel a welcome, feel that there is still some joy in Arda for elves to find? Is that what you mean, my lord?”

I wait, and as he is about to speak, I start again,

“Or, _my lord,_ would you prefer we also had been spending these years in drinking, in foolish stunts in trees, in living again in reverie old battles – and my beloved has plenty of those, any of which brought him more renown than all your fights, _my lord_ – in arguing with sons of Thranduil, in – in all the harmless foolishness you have spent your time?” I pause a moment to catch my breath, I had not known how angry I was until I began, “well, you may wish that, you may have preferred it. But I swore no oath to _you._ My loyalty is to Elrond and the children of Elrond, but these days, before that – my loyalty is to my beloved, my avowed one. And yes, this is our Valley now, these are his warriors – and I will see you and your rabble sail before your time, or be driven back to your Wood, or, needs be, I will see another kin-slaying before I let you take my love from me.”

I am standing now, facing him across the desk, leaning towards him, into his space, and I – I cannot remember when I was last so enraged, so prepared to threaten violence.

He looks at me in silence.

I meet his eyes, and I do not back down.

I will not fail my love in this, I will not back down, I will not blush, I will not show any of the horror I feel at what I have said.

He nods, slowly.

“Erestor, I think – I think I began this wrong,” he says, and I breathe again.

I sink down into my seat, and I wait once more.

I tremble inside at what I have said and done, but I do not show it. 

Now I know something more about myself, I think dispassionately, now I know how much – how very, very much – the happiness of my beloved means to me. Now I know how much I have changed and become like him, to lose my temper and speak so.

There is silence. Suddenly he looks no longer the haughty lord, the Sindar, suddenly he looks – just the grandfather of my boys, an elf who misses his wife, misses his daughter, misses, I daresay, the power he once had. 

“I am sorry,” he begins, and I know it is I who should say that, “I did not mean my words quite – quite how they sounded. I am – truly – grateful that you – both of you – have remained here, have cared for this place. And – and what is between you is your own affair.”

I manage not to smirk at the choice of words. It is indeed.

Very much so.

“I – I have not perhaps been as careful a guardian as I should. And so I feel guilt,” he sighs, “I have indeed been drinking, and performing foolish stunts in trees, and – and what was the rest of it? Yes. To the extent that the sons of Thranduil seem to have – become rulers, in fact if not in name, of part of Lorien. And while they are competent in some things – it is to my shame that I have barely noticed this happening. I fear my boys will not feel welcome there. And – and so I worry that they may not feel welcome here either.”

And the worry in him is enough, the honesty is plain, that I am able to step away from my rage, and reach out to him, and taking one of his hands between my own – and I notice he does not flinch from my touch, whatever he may think of me as I now am – I say,

“Believe me, lord, I would – we would – never, never fail to welcome those boys. We love them, we have loved them every day of their lives. Do you forget who it was that had so much of their teaching? Do you forget with whom they have ridden out, whose sword has protected them so many times?”

He shakes his head, wordless he reaches out with his other hand and grasps mine, and I continue, and I had not thought to say this to him, but I find I need to,

“The only thing we worry – is that they will suffer so when their sister – dies. And that we – we are not asked to visit her in these days of her joy,” I shrug, “but, that is the way of the world, I suppose.”

He nods, silent still, and I wonder that he has not been to see his granddaughter, to see her son, but it is not something of which one can speak.

After a while, another thought comes to me, and reclaiming my hands, I ask him,

“Did you tell them you were leaving Lorien?” and when he nods, I ask, “And where are they – I would write to them, have them visit here – for there cannot now be much time before their sister needs them so.”

He blinks, and I wonder how long it is since any in Lorien kept a count of mortal time.

“They were in Lorien when I left,” he says, “but I know not how long they will stay,” he sighs, and rises to leave, “I will not be under your feet, or in your way, Erestor. I only want – to wait away the years until I can be with my love again. Write to the boys. Visit their sister if you will – and leave who you choose in charge here. I will try, if you ask it, but I will not argue, should you choose another,” he turns away and adds, the words coming hard, “I am sorry I spoke as I did. Your lives are your own, your choices your own. It is not my place to attempt to interpret the will of the Valar to you.”

I suppose that is as close to acceptance as we can expect.

I do not find it in me to answer. 

I can only hope he does not pass his opinion on to his rabble, or to my Glorfindel.

I put the worry from me, and begin a letter to our boys, thinking I had best send a copy to both Lorien and Gondor, that it find them wherever they are.

Come home, boys, I write. We miss you.

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

Of course, he does not tell me what has passed between him and Celeborn.

He thinks I do not know there have been – words. That something changed the look in the lord’s eye, something was said that forced him to accept – or give the appearance of accepting – how we are.

And there is only one elf in Imladris who can speak so.

Yet he thinks I do not realise, did not see the disdain on the face of Celeborn that first evening – I was drunk, but not that drunk. Never that drunk. And that he has hidden it since then – there can be only one reason.

Oh my sweet Erestor, do you really think me so simple? So foolish?

Yes. Yes, I suppose you do.

Well.

Oftentimes you would be right.

Had I not passed the Lord Celeborn as I was on my way to inspect his elves, see what kind of warriors I am landed with, had I not seen the curl of his lip as he looked at me, the way his eyes ran over me, had I not understood the mutterings of his elves – their dialect is not as impenetrable as they would like to think – then I daresay he would be right once more.

As it is, I can feel the slight frost between them, it is clear that they are not easy together, and – I must exert myself, play Glorfindel the simple, jovial host once again.

Not a difficult role.

Not these days.

My life is now so simple, and I – I am joyous.

How not?

I have my Erestor, he loves me, in every way there is.

 

 

 

 

Life goes on.

I – I am happier than I ever dreamed it was possible to be.

I worry, sometimes, that one day – one day I will pay for this.

I worry more that one day – one day my Erestor will pay.

Every day I find a moment to – I suppose mortals would call it pray – to beseech the Valar that – if payment is required – let it be from me.

Not him.

Not my sweet love.

I – I could bear anything to save him.

I do not tell him this. I – I could not hurt him so.

I would not let him think I do not trust his words, that there is still a part of me that is afraid, that has not the confidence in our love that he has.

A part of me that knows I did wrong to drag him into this.

A small part, these days, a part that only whispers to me when he is not by.

Fortunately, he seems not to mind that I wish to be near him day and night.

I love him beyond reason, and beyond all.

He is beautiful to me, in mind, body and fea.

Perhaps, I sometimes dare to think, perhaps he is right, and this – this love that we have is blessed – for how else could the Valar let me despoil one so perfect, but that it is truly not forbidden?

Do not use your head, Glorfindel, I tell myself, do not think of these things. Your brain is not the best of you, trust your clever Erestor in life as you would trust a commander in battle.

And I am able to rest content.

 

 

 

 

But oh our boys. 

Our beautiful clever boys.

“They are – not happy,” I tell my Erestor when I come home, “not happy at all. I think – I think they are bored, and restless, and angry with themselves that they feel so. I think – I do not trust those Sindar. They are up to something. I do not know what, but – they have Thranduil’s cunning without his honour. It is perhaps as well that our boys do not wish to stay and rule Lorien.”

He nods, and I see there is no surprise in his eyes.

“Celeborn said something of that sort,” he says, and shrugs, “I will perhaps send word to that Silvan in Eryn Lasgalen. I know nothing against him, all we know is that Thranduilion – Legolas – was fond of him, trusted him – and our lord trusted Legolas.”

I frown, 

“But – he is not like to make war on Lorien, surely?” I say, “unless you think – is he one to be never content with that he has, but to want always more land?” I suppose, I think, he was once but a hunter, and then Ithilien, and now Eryn Lasgalen – so perhaps tomorrow Lorien, and then – would he seek to come west of the mountains? To Imladris, when we are gone?

In all honesty – I do not care.

But my Erestor sighs, and looks at me as though I am a fool,

“No, I do not think that of him, and it would not be our place to stop him if he were. I think those sons of Thranduil might have a longing to go home, I think they might be as ruthless as their father, and less – justified.”

Oh.

I shrug.

“Do as you will, meleth-nin,” I say, knowing he will, and then I add, “but – later, tomorrow, another day. Now, now I would have you do as I will you to do; now I would have you come to bed, meolleya.”

He smiles, and I am rich beyond all kings and conquerors.

My Erestor loves me, and I can believe I am blessed.

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

 

At last, as we have known it will, the day comes.

The message arrives, borne by a Galadhrim, that our boys prepare to sail, that riverboats are prepared to take them to Ithilien – that ships are commissioned there to be ready – that – that our young lords would have us come to them.

All is prepared, this day is not unexpected.

Much of the House is dismantled, packed up to come overseas. 

Some has been sent on to the children of Arwen, once Evenstar.

Some is gifted to the nearby settlements – they are poor, they will be glad of such comforts.

All is ready.

All here are to leave. Those that wish not to sail – and there are only few – are to make homes in Lorien for a time. For how long, and whether they will in the end sail, I do not – cannot – know. I am not my lord, I have no gift of foresight.

It is not my place to judge for others.

In truth, there are not many here now. Once the message comes, elves begin to set off, in small groups, as they are ready to travel.

In the end, there are only a very few of us left. I do not know what he is doing, but I walk the Halls of this House, I walk the Garden Paths, and I say my farewells, silently.

I remember coming here, remember building this place, as a refuge, a safe-haven.

I remember putting down my sword, and saying that only in the last need would I pick it up in anger once more.

I look at my library, where I have ruled so long, and it is empty, even the shelves now gone to be of use elsewhere. I remember him coming to me, and bringing light and laughter into a silent room.

I look at my study, from where I made so many decisions, dispensed so much advice and counsel, and it is empty – these last lists are kept in my head. I remember all the hours we have spent here – talking, working – and – once – I remember a warrior, unsure of his welcome, speaking the only love poem I will ever hear from him to me.

The only love poem I have needed.

I walk the corridors, and I remember arguments, I remember elflings running and playing and tumbling – and I remember a golden elf always able to scoop them up, and make them laugh, and send them outside, whatever the weather, persuading them it was fun – because he believed it.

He still does.

Idiot that he is.

I walk through the gardens, and I – I smile at memories of sitting in the sun, of working side by side out here, of – friendship, love, stronger than anything in this world or across the Sea.

I remember making love among the roses also.

I – sentimental fool that it seems I am today – I go to what was for long years my chamber – and I remember all the nights we combed there, how happy we were to begin with, and – and all the nights that things were amiss and I knew not how to comfort him.

And I remember learning what it was that troubled him, my horror, my curiosity, those books now packed and sent off, for our boys insisted their father would be pleased – and – and I could not resist the temptation. 

But as I look at the empty chamber once more, I remember the sweet hours when my Glorfindel and I learnt together how wonderful life can be.

Thinking of this, I smile, and I return to our room – the room that has been ours this last – however long it is.

He is there, as I thought he might be. 

I thought all was packed up, but no. He has, it seems, found something else.

Of course.

There is always one elf who waits until beyond the last moment to remember something that must be packed – and it is usually my Glorfindel.

It is, I think, a good thing that I love him.

Otherwise I would not be responsible for my impatience.

As it is, I merely raise an eyebrow, and ask,

“What have you found, and do I need to requisition a cart, or merely forget Lindir’s last bundle in order to take it?”

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

Of course it is Lindir he threatens to punish for my error, my forgetfulness.

No reason, except – he knows I will not truly care if Lindir is made unhappy – Lindir is always unhappy – I am sure Lindir has been unhappy in Valinor all these years – and it is not my fault. It is not I that tortures him so.

“Circlets,” I say, holding them up for inspection, “I had not forgotten them – I simply – never found the moment to ask you – tell you – I wanted us to ride out wearing them.”

He looks at me as though I am run mad.

“This one for you,” I say, “it will suit your hair better than mine.”

I hold it out, and he looks.

His face is – inscrutable as ever.

I love him, but I can rarely read his thoughts.

I – I am an open book to him.

And there is not the book in existence that my Erestor cannot read.

“Gold,” he says, “gold set with golden flowers. Very pretty, very – symbolic. And you want me to wear it.”

I nod.

“This is the other,” I say, “gold with sapphires. Looks better on me, would get lost in your hair.”

He waits, and I – I fill the silence.

“This was a gift from Ecthelion,” I say, “it was something friends exchanged – a sort of – warrior thing.”

He waits.

“I suppose it seems odd, but – it was just the custom. It is nicely made. Valuable. Do you know, I do not think I have ever worn it?”

“I had supposed not,” he says, dry as dust, “or I would have seen it. I doubt I would have forgotten the sight.”

There is silence again, and then he hands the circlet back to me, and my heart sinks until,

“Well, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, I am not so exalted. I have no idea how to fix this in – you had best do it for me. And leave my braids respectable.”

As though I would not.

I would not have your hair look unkempt in public, my beloved, my Erestor, my own. I am the only one to see you dishevelled, unbound, glowing – as you alone see me.

And so – somehow in the pleasure of seeing him in this, the only such decoration I have ever dared give him – leaving the place that has been home so long – so very long – goes unnoticed.

For all the years we lived here content, for all these last golden years – I cannot say I am sorry to leave a place I was so – desolate.

 

 

 

 

 

The voyage is as voyages are.

No elf is seasick.

Some are bored, and bicker.

Some are excited – boys, I am thinking of you – and ridiculous, and like elflings again, wriggling and running and bouncing.

We are patient – we know they are desperately trying to distract themselves from grief.

Most – most are as elves are, dreaming, singing, combing, talking.

 

 

 

 

At last, at last we sight land.

There is much preparation – much doing of braids, much combing, much talk and song – we are elves, after all – much discussion of what to wear, and who will greet us, and so on.

We find a private space – it has been difficult, this journey, no chance to – to be together – to make love – and we comb, and – I braid him, and he me, these braids we have adapted for ourselves, these which are not quite the braids of simple vowing, but are not quite marriage braids, and I look at him in joy.

“Circlet straight?” he asks, but his eyes are as excited as mine.

“Yes,” I say, and then – and oh Valar, why, why do I never learn to think before I speak, “it looks wonderful on you. I – I always wondered if there would ever be one to wear it – Atar and Amme said it was for my bride, but – I never thought – “

Oh FUCK.

Oh sweet fucking Elbereth.

Oh Manwe’s Balls.

My Erestor is going to kill me for that.

And – and that there was a lull – there is always a lull at such moments – and all have heard – and are looking – and – and our boys are – laughing.

Not just our boys.

“I – I did not – I – sorry,” I say, and he continues silently looking at me, “I – Erestor – meleth – I did not – you are – “

“I am not your bride?” he says, very calm, and controlled.

“No,” I say, biting my lip – and I cannot remember being this afraid for many years – but to be so close – so close to Home – and with him – and then to lose it all, “no, of course not. I – they just – it was expected – you know how things were – if Gondolin had not fallen – I would have had to marry. Heirs.”

I do not think this is helping much.

Oh shit.

“Heirs,” he says, “you would have had to marry for heirs.”

“You know this,” I say, “and – and you are not my bride.”

He looks at me a while longer, the boat all the time carrying us closer to shore, and hardly anyone is looking at the land to which we have travelled, the elves on the shore – and how, I wonder do they know to come and look – the elves on the shore are ignored, as all on this boat sit in silence, and still, and watch, and – wait.

I daresay they are expecting to see me have to swim to shore.

Do they not realise that if my Erestor wants me not, there is no reason for me to swim? I had rather sink than be ashore without him.

Erestor is not one to anger often, but when he does – it is spectacular.

“I am not your bride?” he says again, still calm and quiet, but – oh my Erestor – will you be again my Erestor – the cold and menacing tone of that voice.

“No,” I say again, “you know you are not, Erestor, meleth-nin, you know what you are to me. I – meant nothing by my words.”

The elves around us are still and silent, and this – this is not how I expected these moments to be, and I begin to understand – we should never have come. I should never have tried to sail.

Valinor is not, it seems, for me.

I am, as I so long feared, cast out by my desires, my actions, my – my sin, and the shame I have brought on my love, my Erestor.

In all my fears, I never imagined it happening this way.

I thought – I do not know what I thought. A shipwreck, a storm, a forced landing, something of that kind.

Not this – silence and stillness. These elves seeing and hearing my shame, knowing what we have done, how we have sinned, and witnessing my punishment.

I wonder if he will be allowed to land, when once I am gone.

Please, I think, please.

Not Erestor.

It is not his fault. None of it. 

He is not to blame.

I – I corrupted him – reject me, but do not cast him away.

He speaks again, low and – and his voice seems – different.

I am afraid, and so I find it hard to understand his words, his meaning.

“Which words?” he says, “Which words meant nothing, Glorfindel?”

I make a helpless gesture – you know which words, I think – I did not mean to imply you – you are anything but what you are.

“Which words?” he says again, “I have lived my life by words, words for duty, for promises, for law and wise dealings. I have given my love to you for words, words of comfort, of dependence, of care, of trust – words of love. Which of your words were worthless? Did you not then mean it when you said I was your love, your lover, your beloved? Did you not then mean it when you said you wished always to look up and see me there? Did our vows mean nothing, that you should now speak of – of elflings?” he pauses, and I – I am shaking my head, I am reaching for him, as he says,

“I am not your bride – are these, perhaps, the words that mean nothing? When all here know I am your bride in all but name, as you are mine. Do not you deny me now, do not you deny what we are, and our love, not now, not ever.”

In my relief, I am kneeling at his feet, and kissing his hands, and I can feel the eyes of the others turn away from us, and their talk rises, their song once more begins, and they – they are building us a screen of privacy as only elves can, with attention withdrawn, and I – I am covering his hands in kisses, and,

“I did not mean that – I said it and then – I thought it sounded – I have not the words.”

He looks at me, and he smiles, and he pulls me up, and his hands are on my ears, and mine on his, and he says,

“I know. You meant I am not “the girl”, not some shy kitten you won over with your warrior’s prowess. I know what you meant – but – do not deny that we are as married. Your hair and mine tells it, let our words also,” and he sighs, “I think there will be enough here confused by our love, ready to deny it, without us doing so. I would have us be as honest and open here as we have been in Imladris – and if that means we must find a part of this land with few others then – I shall not care,” he shrugs, “I need only you for my happiness. But you – you I will not relinquish or conceal.”

I nod, understanding, but unable to speak.

“Now,” he continues, “now we are all but landed,” and he turns to look past me, “come on,” he says “boys, I can see your parents – you had best be off this boat first. Everyone else, let them past and then – there is no hurry. We will be here awhile.”

I hear the elves around us laugh, and talk, and continue – but I cannot turn. Not just yet. I need to cling to my Erestor a little longer for I thought – I thought I had lost him, thought I had lost all I hold dear.

He is my everything.

And he is right – I will not hide myself, nor my love, nor his love for me.

If we have landed, then it seems he has been right about everything.

I am forgiven, the Valar are not turned away from me – and more importantly, my Erestor loves me still.

Perhaps this land is blessed indeed.

 

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

Even as we wait for the others to disembark, I wonder what came over me. I am Erestor, I am not one to behave so, to make a scene, to flaunt ourselves.

Do not lie, Erestor, you know why you did that.

He is here, no doubt, among that crowd of elves is the name always linked with that of my beloved. Somewhere, there is a hero, a friend, a – a giver of expensive circlets. Somewhere there is one he has not seen for an Age or more, one who perhaps knows him better than I, one who is of his own land, his city, one who understands him better than I ever will, one who is – a lord, even as he is, one to whom he was close, one who – and I stop myself, I will not even put the thought into words. That I do not even know which he is – that makes this more difficult.

I knew our lord would have no eyes for us as we landed, only for his sons, and that all our party would be greeting those who are already here. Ear-touching, singing, speech, all the noise and delight of elves.

There is, of course, much passing of boxes, and bundles, and reminding those who went ahead of what they left, much exchanging of gossip, of who has made new combing vows here or back East, of what became of mortals, of elflings born, all the chatter of elves.

Overseeing all this, we are last to disembark.

He leaps down, fluid and beautiful in motion as ever, and is, I think, about to turn, to help me, not that I need it any more than any elf, when someone comes up to him.

Big, dark as my love is fair, beautiful, confident – oh they bred them well, all those years ago – and he touches ears, he speaks for a moment in that dialect I still must think to follow,

“Laurefindel – Glorfindel – at last, my friend, at last. So long it is, so many years, so much time I have waited here for you. And now you come to me, wearing the circlet I gave you – you remembered – how unlike you to be so affectionate. Stories I have heard of you – stories of how you have been putting your time to use – but I would hear your words – come – dine with me, dance with me again, share your song with mine – tonight – all the nights – much have I missed you – my friend, my dear friend.”

And the old fear bites hard at me, that in sailing I have lost him, that here there are those he has missed this long age, those to whom he was once Laurefindel, those to whom he has a tie deeper and greater than any we have built.

But – since things between us changed I had not truly feared this – until he produced those circlets – and now for a moment, a long moment, I am cold.

And I wonder if he walks away from me, if he says that all we learnt was but an aberration caused by his loneliness, his pain, by – by the nearness of mortals – what will become of me?

He laughs, he is touching the ears of this elf, they are hugging – as warriors do – they are half-wrestling, laughing in idiocy, 

“Ecthelion,” he says, “Ecthelion mine – have you been running to every boat – or just this last, sure of your success, sure of my lateness, late as ever? And – and how long have you been here? Tell me all – I would hear of your tales – none has told me of you, and so glad I am – so glad I am to see you here once more,” but as I remind myself I am Erestor, I will not show my feelings, if he wants me not, I will not show pain, he turns to pull me towards him, 

“Erestor-love,” he says, “this is my Ecthelion, my friend, my companion, he will tell you all my faults that you know not – as if there were any left for you to discover – he will at least tell you all the mistakes I made and thought forgot – he will tell you how much improved the new reformed barely-drinking Glorfindel is,” and he turns back again, his arm still round me, even as I am wondering at customs of long ago, if the Glorfindel I know is reformed and barely drinks, “Ecthelion, my friend, this is my Erestor, my avowed, my love, and so no – no I will not dine and dance and sing with you tonight or all the nights – there is another place I should be – but – you two must be friends or how shall I be at peace?”

Ecthelion and I look at each other, and I – I wonder at my love, my foolish love, my simple, big-hearted love – while Ecthelion examines me, taking in all that my clothes can tell, his eyes resting on the circlet in my hair, and widening a little as he reads the braids.

“Erestor, Vanimedlion,” I explain, since my love has failed in the courtesies, “of Eregion, of Mithlond, and of Imladris, warrior, councillor, advisor, and,” I smile, “librarian.”

He returns my small bow, as though the places I name mean anything to him, as though my titles, my descent can compare to his estate, and I look at his ease, his beauty, and wonder which resources, which words, I must use to win this battle, which yet must not seem a battle for the sake of my love’s innocence and pleasure in us both,

“Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountains,” he says, and I smile once more, as bland as he, before he switches to an easier form of Quenya, and disarms me completely, “Laurefindel – my apologies – Glorfindel – Erestor, you will forgive my mistake, it takes a long while for some elves to change – forgive me also that I have become lazy and forgot my Sindarin – though in the years ahead, maybe you will teach me – nay, my friend, my dearest friend, I meant not to invite you to a bachelors’ all-night drinking session. My wife – you will not know her – she is Teleri – wonderful people – come – come and meet her – and the little ones – “ his eyes pass over our braids again, “you will not have your own, I am thinking – come and you may borrow ours – we have elflings enough to share – ten now, and she talks of more, even as the oldest will be courting soon, and so more little ones – and your lord has spent these years praising the way the two of you educated his rascals – Eru knows mine could do with sense knocked into them – come.”

I am silenced, for once, by his – exuberance.

And, I admit, by his uxoriousness. My Glorfindel looks at me and raises an eyebrow, asking as best he can whether I am content with this – but how not? To see him valued and welcomed – by one who is married to another – to see his ears twitch at the thought of more elflings with whom to play the idiot, and, above all, to see he has not noticed the expression on the face of our lord as he looks at our braids, and reads them, and narrows his eyes – I am content to go with this Lord of the Fountains.

It seems that this elf whose reunion with my love I so dreaded is not the threat to our happiness.

I had best be prepared for the day our lord sends some poor elf to rebuke our – whatever words he chooses.

Poor Lindir.

It will be Lindir.

It is always Lindir our lord uses for such tasks.

Who else would willingly speak words none wish to hear?

But there is nothing to be done.

For now – for now, I am Erestor, and I will follow my Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.

He will need me.

He always does.

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> meollyar - the best Quenya I can manage for, of course, "kitten".


End file.
